


Unfinished Business

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan is on his way home, after what feels like years and years and endless miles of red and white flag waving, when his phone beeps:</p><p>  <i>Got time tomorrow to meet me in Lausanne?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Business

When the confetti falls, he’s not thinking about the cameras or the trophy or his family and what this means. Confetti isn’t much, honestly, compared to the glitz of Grand Slams and bright city lights. But it makes him think of Basel, six years ago, and the nostalgic feeling of a medal around his neck and a partner’s arm around his shoulders. Deja vu comes full circle when he feels someone’s hand brushing the bits of colored paper from his hair. Stan makes a face at Roger, who grins — just for a split second, before Seve’s saying something and Roger turns away again. A living legend’s time is always in high demand, Davis Cup victory or no.

“I could get used to this,” Michi says on his other side, leaning close to Stan’s ear to make himself heard over the noise. 

Stan slings an arm around him. “Congrats, champ.” 

“Congrats yourself. What do you say, up there with your best wins to date?” 

Stan looks up at the confetti, radiant in floodlights and flashing camera bulbs. He smiles to himself. “Better than gold.”

 

* * *

 

The afterparty turns into another afterparty turns into a spontaneous decision to greet the dawn together, which is the point where Roger usually begs off, citing old age and young children and a wife whom even the most ruthless dictator would think twice before crossing. But Mirka would have to forgive him, surely, for tonight. They pile into a car, all four of them, despite various managers’ resigned protests. Michi nicks Roger’s phone and tosses it to Marco without discussion. The driver politely doesn’t comment as he navigates the midmorning streets of Lille.

“Seeeve,” Marco croons into the phone, “can’t sleep yet, okay? You can’t. We’ll be there in — wait, how far’s it? To the place?”

“Where we even going?” Michi snickers into Stan’s shoulder. Stan shoves him back upright. 

Roger cranes his neck to see the GPS. “The Crowne,” he concludes. Then pauses. “Well, obviously. Aren’t we all staying there?” That sends the other three into a fresh burst of giggles. 

“We’ll arrive in ten minutes, sir,” the driver advises.

“Ten minutes!” Marco announces, talking over what sounds like a half-hearted protest from their long-suffering captain. “See you soon!” He blows a kiss and hangs up. The phone is tossed back to Roger, who barely manages to intercept its straight-through-the-window trajectory. But that’s all right, he supposes; it’s Marco. They’d all let him get away with murder, if it came to that, because he’s Marco. 

And this is also the reason, probably, why Seve doesn’t slam the door in their faces when they show up at his hotel room at three in the morning, jackets long discarded and ties all askew.

“None of you are ever allowed to drink again.” Seve plunks a pitcher of water and a bottle of orange juice down on the coffee table. He adds four glasses to the mix. “Drink that before you embarrass yourselves on television tomorrow.”

“Today,” comes a muffled voice. Marco lifts his head from the duvet long enough to say, more audibly, “’s almost morning anyway,” before burying his face back into a pillow.

“Which is why you should all be asleep?” Seve suggests without much hope.

Roger blinks and tries to remember when the room turned sideways. It takes him a second to realize that he’s sitting on the sofa, and that he’s put his head down on someone’s shoulder. Someone with a very nice shoulder. 

“Michi’s already asleep,” he hears himself say. “Think Marco is, too.”

Seve glances at the two prone forms sprawled over his hotel bed. And sighs. “If any of you throw up or die of alcohol poisoning, I’ll kill you. Shove over,” he tells Roger, which confuses him for a second. Then the shoulder he’s borrowing as a pillow moves and dislodges him. Strong arms lift him to his feet. 

Roger blinks at Stan.

“Thought you said you were going to be the sober one,” Stan says, while Seve pulls out the sofa bed and billows spare sheets into an impromptu sleeping arrangement.

Roger sways against him. “Guess I lied.” 

“Bad habit of yours.”

“Mm,” Roger agrees. “You love me anyway.” 

There’s something wrong with what he just said, he suspects. But Stan’s chest is solid and firm beneath his hand, and the floor feels anything but. So the best course of action seems to be to put his head back where it was, because Stan’s shoulder is very comfortable. And warm.

He vaguely recalls somebody saying, “Will you be okay?” and another voice answering, “Yeah, it’s fine.” The next thing he knows for sure is waking up with what feels like vindictive dwarves trying to hammer their way out of his skull. Sunlight streams through wide-open curtains and reflects off white hotel walls. He squints at a tuft of brown hair half-obscuring the light, which is helpful. 

What’s less helpful is realizing that said hair belongs to Stan, who’s curled up next to him. And then the nausea hits.

Seve is sitting in one of the armchairs by the window when Roger re-emerges from the bathroom. He’s wearing a hotel bathrobe and his glasses and, because he’s Seve, already has a steaming cup of coffee and newspaper in hand.

“You’re an idiot,” Seve says, after he’s let Roger steal his coffee along with the economics pages. 

Roger finishes the whole cup in total awareness of his own misplaced spite. “You could have taken me back to my own room.”

“And face Mirka’s wrath? I like to think I’m smarter than that.” Seve turns a page and straightens the newspaper; the snap of the broadsheet is crisp and loud. 

Roger glances around. Michi and Marco are dead to the world; Stan still frowns in his sleep. He looks back at Seve to find the other man watching him. Roger rolls his eyes for lack of a better response. “Yeah, well. Thanks for having my back.”

“Anytime,” Seve replies, because he has no soul. “Meet in the ballroom at ten, don’t forget. The cameras are rolling with or without you. We have a backup Grand Slam winner now, and Davis Cup was a team effort.”

“I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

Seve placidly turns another page. “I have you guys.”

 

* * *

 

It’s not until a couple days later that they actually get a moment to breathe, what with interview after event after interview. By the end of it all, Marco and Michi look like they’ll collapse if anyone initiates another cheer or handshake in their honor. Seve is as unruffled as ever. And Roger, they agree, is already used to this kind of life.

Stan is on his way home, after what feels like years and years and endless miles of red and white flag waving, when his phone beeps:

_Got time tomorrow to meet me in Lausanne?_

_depends_ , he types, and waits.

It’s a few minutes before his phone beeps again. _Depends on?_

Stan chews his thumbnail while he thinks of a response. Dmitri used to yell at him for the nail biting. But Dmitri’s not here anymore.

He texts back, _how late will you keep me up?_

 

* * *

 

The address is for a house on the leeward side of a secluded hill, trees and hedges providing an effective barrier against prying eyes as well as the occasional cow. Stan pulls into the empty driveway. _Keys under the mat,_ had been the last text he’d gotten, along with, _I’ll be there at 5._

His own watch reads 4:45. Stan kills the engine and lets himself into the house. It’s tastefully if sparsely furnished, and oddly dustless for a place that doesn’t look all that much lived in. He browses the DVDs lined up in rows. The bookshelves are packed with things designed to impress, not enjoy. Past the patio windows and living room, he turns a handle and finds a bedroom, also spotless. It feels almost as anonymous as a hotel.

He closes the door, hating himself for looking in the first place, and hears the snick of a key in the lock. 

Roger’s still wearing the suit from whatever event he’s just come from. Stan sticks his hands in the pockets of his khakis and lets the other man decide how to close the distance between them. Roger gets as far as the sofa before he stops. He’s smiling in that slightly awkward way of his that somehow manages to be both infuriating and endearing. 

“Hey,” he says, and fidgets. Makes a gesture that half-encompasses the room. “So. What do you think?”

Stan makes a show of looking around. “I don’t know. I mean,” he raises an eyebrow, “what do you usually say to someone spontaneously buying you a house?”

“What? No, this—” Roger looks flabbergasted, which is kind of new. “I know the owner, and he only comes here in the summer, so I asked to borrow the place for—“

“I was kidding.”

Roger stops mid-sentence. “Right. Well.” He half-turns on the spot, then turns back. “Do you _want_ me to buy you a house?”

“Are you offering?”

“Are you asking?”

Stan laughs at him. 

“Hey, don’t mock my generosity.” The words are accompanied by a smile.

Stan just shrugs. “It’s a step up from a hotel, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He watches Roger’s smile falter. “That’s not — I didn’t mean that. Really.”

“It’s fine, Roger. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but... Yeah. Okay.” Roger glances at his watch. “You hungry? I called the caterer, and they’ll—“

“You called the what?”

“—be here in two hours.” Roger blinks. “Well, I wasn’t about to get takeout.”

“How about you call your _caterer_ ,” Stan enunciates the word like it’s a foreign language, “and ask them to bring some ingredients, and I’ll cook?”

“You’ll cook?”

“Yeah, why not?” Stan shrugs off his windbreaker, drapes it over the sofa. Roger automatically follows him to the kitchen, where he stands cautiously near the fridge while Stan opens a cupboard to inspect the contents. “Seems only fair, anyway,” he says, “since you’re buying me a house.”

 

* * *

 

The caterer brings a basket of produce along with a basket of cheese and wine. Stan studies the label on a bottle of red. “This looks expensive.”

“They recommended that one. I know you don’t usually drink wine.”

“What makes you think I don’t drink wine?”

“I thought you preferred vodka?”

Stan puts the wine back in the basket. “Vodka gets you drunk faster.” He sorts through the produce and arranges the vegetables in a line. Garlic and olive oil bookend the formation. “Wine’s more of an occasion thing.”

Roger peers into the basket to see what’s left. “So what should we call this occasion?”

He glances up when the pause ticks into the territory of silence. Stan’s looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“What?” asks Roger. 

Stan turns back to the basket. “Nothing. Is this chicken?”

“Yeah, should be.” Roger puts the paper-wrapped package next to the olive oil. “What are we making?”

“A mess, with your track record.” Stan grins at the affronted look on Roger’s face. “Kidding. Mostly. Can you see if there’s a small saucepan?”

“You know I actually can cook, right?” Roger says, over the discordant clang of pots.

Stan runs a colander under the tap. “Which is why you called a caterer?”

“Didn’t say I was a _good_ cook.”

“The great Roger Federer. Brought low by a humble frying pan.”

“Lies and slander.” Roger sets something down on the stove with aplomb. 

Stan glances over. “Right. Sorry. Brought low by an _omelette_ pan.”

Roger frowns at the offending piece of cookware. “There’s a difference?”

“Only technically, but don’t worry your pretty head about it. I’ll make do.”

He gets an elbow for his trouble as Roger squeezes in beside him to help wash the vegetables. “I’d forgotten what a snob you are in the kitchen.”

“Not my fault your memory’s not what it used to be, old man.”

“Yeah, yeah. Another few years and I’ll be forgetting my own name, right?”

Stan grins. “Good thing you’ve got RF monogrammed on everything you own.”

 

* * *

 

They set the table amidst a stream of idle banter, which carries on and carries them through the meal. And this is easy, always has been, because fine dining and dumb humor are right up there on the list of Things That Roger Federer Loves Most. And one can't fault him for that. Even if one would like to.

But no. The problem, Stan thinks, is that neither of them have quite figured out what to do when both food and laughter run out.

He loads the dishwasher while Roger fiddles with the living room lights, because even at thirty-three, he's never yet learned to sit still. The lamps ebb and fade as Roger toggles switches at random, the _click click_ of buttons a monotonous counterpoint to the minutes going by.

Stan opens the second bottle of wine.

“We never decided,” he says, when Roger wanders back into the kitchen.

“Decide what?”

“The occasion.” Stan pours two glasses.

Roger takes the one handed to him. “Well. We just won the Davis Cup?"

“That party ended a couple days ago."

“But never too late to revisit a good memory."

The wine looks almost gold in this light. It’s funny, and maybe a little appropriate, because it’s always this color that never fails to get him into trouble. “Yeah, why not," he says at length; the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “To old memories." 

He lifts his glass; Roger mirrors him, after only a moment’s hesitation. 

They lapse into silence again. Stan leans against the counter. Roger studies the view from the kitchen window, not that there's much to see. The dishwasher hums. A clock ticks on the wall.

“So,” he says. 

Roger's eyes flick over his. “So.”

“How about a little reciprocation?"

“What?"

“I’ve said the magic words half a dozen times this week. Two of those times live on camera. Don’t you think it's your turn?"

Roger stares at him. Clears his throat. Starts to put down his glass, changes his mind halfway and takes another gulp first. “What do you want me to say?"

“How about anything but that?"

“Sorry."

“Or that." Stan tops up his glass. “What are you, suffering from guilt suddenly?"

"I'm not—"

“Oh, shut up. I was joking, all right? It's called a joke. As in that thing where I say something funny and you laugh—"

“No," Roger cuts him off. “It's not. You weren't."

The wine bottle clinks too loud when he sets it back down. 

“Look," Roger continues, “I know you well enough to know when you're not joking, all right? And. I don't know. I don't want to make this a thing."

“You're the one who asked me here."

“I just wanted to spend some time together, like we used to."

" _Used to_? As in — what, ten years ago?" Stan brushes past him en route to the living room. “Are you actually having a midlife crisis?"

“Ten years ago, you were too starstruck to even talk to me," Roger snaps.

“And ten years ago, I was that much better off for it." Stan flops back on the sofa, feet on the coffee table and arms spread in mock helplessness. “What can I say? Some things just look better from a distance."

Roger stands at the threshold between tiled kitchen floor and hardwood polished to a shine. “That many years still isn’t enough distance for you to start to forgive me? Even a little?"

"I've forgiven you."

“Have you?"

“I just said—"

“It's not just the words."

Stan sets his empty glass down. “What do you want from me, Roger?” 

A slight pause. “Can we not do this?"

“Sure. What do you want to do, then?"

“I told you. I just wanted to spend some time—"

“Like we used to?" He gets up, and watches Roger take a half-step back. “You’ll have to be a little more specific than that. Because ‘used to’ could mean anything. Like the last two years, when it’d mean we pretend nothing ever happened." He takes a step forward. “Or four years ago, when you'd spend the night but no other time because — what was that phrase you used? You wanted to respect my space?" The smile twists his lips, even now. He takes another step. “Or five years ago, you'd tell me I'd misunderstood, said too much, demanded too much, and you had your own goals to focus on and worry about and barely enough time for your _wife_ much less a little something on the side." 

One final step takes them to within touching distance. Stan fingers the tie still hanging loose around Roger's neck. It's expensive, he can tell. Brand name. Imported. Perfect. He could probably rip it to shreds. 

“Or," Stan murmurs, "maybe you meant like any other time, when I would’ve gotten on my knees in a heartbeat if you'd only said the word." His hand tightens around Italian silk. “Is that what you want?"

Roger grabs his hand, calloused fingers over bruised knuckles and cloth. “I want to know what you want."

“What I want isn't on the table." He tries to break free, but Roger's grip is iron. “Let go."

“I can't undo what happened," Roger says, voice tempered with frustration and — perhaps, in some twisted way, though Stan never asked for it — kindness. “Even if I could, I don't know what I'd undo. We had all those good times, too, didn’t we? And I know you blame me, but I promise that I never, ever knowingly lied to you. And what I did, I thought it was for the best—"

“Best for _who_?" Stan jerks his arm free. “You just wanted somebody easy and I happened to be—"

“If I wanted just somebody, you think I couldn't have found—"

“Well, maybe you should have!" 

The words fall like mallets on bells; silence rings. Stan paces to the window. He can see Roger's reflection in the panes. Can see him stare around, fidgeting, gathering words. Like,

“If you don't want to see me again—"

“Oh, fuck _you_." Stan rounds on him. “You know perfectly well I can't _not_ see you when this country's the size of a glorified stamp and this Davis Cup means we'll be thrown together for things from now until Seve loses the rest of his hair."

“Won't have long to wait, then," Roger quips, but barely manages a smile himself. “Look, I know. I know we can't avoid each other, which is why — I just want to make sure that we'll be okay. That we are okay."

“Well, we're _not_ okay. If you can't see that by now—"

“Then tell me what you want me to do—"

“Nothing, Roger! Because this," Stan jabs a finger at the distance between them, emphasis, "this is how it is. _This._ Because you strung me along for years and fucked me and fucked me over after Beijing even though you know perfectly well that affairs are never just about sex to begin with!"

“And that was six years ago!" Roger runs a hand through his hair, the motion sharp and tearing. He spreads his arms. “I fucked up. I know. But that was _six years ago_. How long are you going to punish me for this?”

“Until I have to actively work to remember, instead of things you said coming back to fucking interrupt me in the middle of everything I'm doing!”

“So basically, what you're saying is you'll _never_ —"

“You made me ashamed." The tone of his voice silences whatever else Roger had been about to say. “You made me feel like — everything I felt, everything I wanted was just an overreaction. Like if I was a little older, a little smarter, I would’ve laughed at myself, too. Because." He breathes. “Because back then, I would have done anything. Given up my career, my family. Kept your secrets, followed you across the world or waited ten, twenty years — _anything_ , if it meant that at some point we could be together."

The pause is almost unbearable.

“You knew," Roger says quietly, "that it was never going to happen."

“No, _you_ knew. Because you'd decided from the start.”

The dishwasher pings a soft, sweet sound. 

Roger doesn't try to stop him when Stan goes and starts unloading the pots and pans and two sets of silverware and plates. The omelette pan isn't quite dry yet. He hunts for a dishtowel. The steam from the dishwasher mists around his face; he wipes it with his sleeve. 

Roger asks, “Do you want me to help?"

"I'll be done in a minute." The bowls are mismatched and don't stack quite right. He disassembles the whole pile and starts over.

Roger asks, “Do you want me to leave?"

“If you want."

“But do you want—"

The plates clatter on top of one another. “Nobody's making you stay."

He wipes down the pots in clock-ticking silence. He doesn't hear the footsteps, but he does hear the snick of an open door, the soft sounds from outside, the muted hush of evening being shut out again and then the storm door clanging into place. 

He rinses the wineglasses, leaves them on the counter. It's obvious that whoever owns this place is both wealthy and meticulous enough to hire a cleaner in his absence. All the dishes he just dried will be rewashed. The fridge will be cleaned out, the floor wiped clean of any evidence of their presence. In a way, it’s almost comforting.

He grabs his windbreaker, and turns the lights off on his way out.

 

* * *

 

On Saturday, he leaves for Dubai. In the airport, Roger spends ten minutes holding his phone, counting down the time until he’ll have to turn it off at the behest of a pilot's voice over the intercom. He tries to think of words that fall somewhere between, _If I'd known it would be like this I would never have asked you to Lausanne,_ and, _I'm sorry._

In the end, he turns off the phone before boarding the plane.

Seve meets him when he lands, sleek sunglasses incongruous with the faded t-shirt and three-year-old trainers currently adorning his feet.

“Anna Wintour wept," Roger informs him.

Seve just shrugs and starts the car.

“Where’d you disappear to on Thursday?" Seve asks as they haul the luggage into the elevator.

Roger presses the button for their floor. “Lausanne."

Seve watches the numbers flashing by on the display. “You talked to Stan?"

“We always talk."

“So you two didn't have a huge fight on Thursday?"

A pause.

“Who told you that?"

“Your face did, just now." The elevator dings open on their floor. “I can see all that media training was for nothing. But that's fine. Your small failings make you authentic and approachable.”

Roger follows him down the hall. “We're fine. We just had dinner."

“Which explains why he isn't answering any of my calls."

“I don't know how to break this to you," Roger says, as Seve searches for the right key card, "but we'd all ignore your calls if we could. And we can."

“Oh, that's right. Now that I've dispatched my duty in helping you win the last trophy on your ridiculously long list of lifetime achievements, you don't need me anymore." Seve opens the door.

Roger closes it after himself. “I heard Andy Murray needs a new fitness coach."

“Too bad for him, because I heard you need a new life coach."

Roger leaves the luggage in the doorway and makes for the bathroom. “Can we talk about this later, after I've had a shower and a nap? And a couple days without your nagging? Not necessarily in that order."

“No problem,” Seve calls through the bathroom door. "I'll be here all week."

 

* * *

 

He calls Mirka and his parents to see how they’re doing, and Seve makes lunch for them both. They eat on the glass-walled patio. Which, Roger supposes, makes it more of a very well-windowed room rather than an actual patio. 

“Minutiae," is Seve's response when Roger points this out. “You want to go over the list now or later?"

Roger takes a bite of his sandwich. “Do you have it with you?”

Seve produces two manila folders and a clipboard out of seemingly nowhere, and yes, Roger should have known better than to even ask. He pours himself a glass of water and waves for Seve to go through the highlighted notes from his vetting of potential fitness trainers and hitting partners for the off season.

“There's also the guys from Murray’s team,” Seve says, halfway through lunch. 

Roger glances at the stack of papers; they’re down to the final few, which means these are the people Seve actually approves of. Not that you'd ever get him to say so outright. Seve believes in "not influencing your decision, Roger, because not all of us have lawyers protecting our overpriced asses.”

It’s completely facetious, and they both know it. But Seve is the kind of person who sticks to his principles. Or, at the very least, habits.

Roger skims over the profile of a guy he vaguely remembers seeing in Murray's box during matches. More clearly, he remembers seeing them talking and smiling during practice sessions, early mornings or blistering mid-summer afternoons, London to Cincinnati to Shanghai.

“You think he’d forgive me for poaching his best friend so soon after they split?"

“It's not like they broke up."

“There were rumors."

“There's always rumors." Seve flips through the rest of his files. “Anyway, you can't make somebody forgive you. In the end, we can only forgive ourselves.”

“If I wanted a self-help book, I would’ve gone to the bookstore."

“Amazon is much cheaper."

“Is that where you've been getting yours?"

Seve shrugs, unfazed. “Some of these people on this list? If you want to work with them, you'd better get used to motivational posters."

His phone rings before Roger can think of a retort. He's about to mute the ringer when he sees the number, and Seve sees it at the same time.

“We’ll go over the rest later.” Seve gathers up the papers. “Meet you inside."

“We’re almost done—“

“Take the damn call, Federer." Seve closes the patio door after himself.

Roger answers the call. 

“Hello.”

“Hey,” says Stan. “Just thought I’d see how you're doing. You're in Dubai, right? With Seve?”

“Yeah, he's here. And I'm — it’s good," Roger settles for. “How are you?"

"I'm okay. Well, no. Let's not use that word." Stan makes a humming sound, thinking. “Busier than I should be, for the first week of my supposed holiday. Mostly because Benoit and Gael picked up a bad habit of coming over to disturb my peace and quiet. I think they think they’re being good friends."

Roger laughs despite himself. “If you spend any more time with those two, people might start to think you're actually fond of them.”

“Don't go telling them that.” He can hear Stan's smile. “But yeah, there's been that. And spending some time with Alexia. She's decided that she wants to be on TV like her mother when she grows up. Imagine my disappointment."

“Tragic," Roger agrees, "that she wants nothing to do with her father's intensely private lifestyle."

“I guess not all our daughters can be future Wimbledon champions. Maybe she can do the on-court interview."

“Myla would love that."

“I knew she was your favorite daughter.”

“Not true. Charlene just doesn't like talking to people. If they played each other, Myla would probably give both the victory and concession speeches.”

“She takes after you."

“You calling me a chatterbox?"

“’Sociable’ and ‘communicative’ would look so much better on your resume."

“I don't remember the last time I wrote a resume. Actually, I don't think I've ever written a resume."

“Better start now, old man. With four kids and a wife to support, you'll be out there waiting tables or wearing a sandwich board before too long."

“Hey, I'd look fantastic in a sandwich board."

“You probably would, is the annoying part."

Roger smiles into the phone. The pause is companionable, and it seems strange that he's both missed and taken this for granted. “How are you, Stan? Really?"

“Getting on. You know, the usual."

“But you're—" He hesitates at the word. “I mean, I'm not assuming that everything's okay but—" 

“Okay's boring," Stan says. “You don't have anywhere to go really, do you, when you're just ‘okay’.”

Roger turns that over in his mind. “I suppose. Yeah.”

"I'm trying to be better," Stan says after a bit, "for myself. And the people I care about.” He takes a breath before continuing, “It's weird, you know, when you want to hurt someone but you also still care about them. Doesn’t matter how much. Sometimes it's like you're two completely different people, on different days. But I guess — well, no. I don't guess. I've decided, that it's easier to hurt someone than to help someone. Maybe because it's easier to be hurting, yourself. It doesn't require you to go anywhere. Kind of like okay. But that gets old. After a while."

His throat feels tight for some reason. “That's...yeah. That's a really good perspective."

“Thanks," says Stan, and it doesn't sound entirely sardonic. “So. That's me. How about you?"

"I'm—" Roger stops himself before he says _okay_ , "—vetting a fitness team. That's why Seve's here already. Mirka and the kids are coming on Monday."

“In other words, not a moment's rest, as usual?"

Roger smiles to himself. “Rest is overrated, anyway."

“Speak for yourself. I'm about to take a nap."

“Don't let me keep you from your beauty sleep."

“Yeah, I know. It's hard work, looking this attractive."

They laugh at the same time. 

“I miss you," Roger says before he can overthink it. “And I'm sorry. About Thursday."

"I'm not," is the quiet response. “I needed to say it. And you needed to hear it. Even if it is a couple years too late."

“It's never too late."

“To revisit old memories?"

“To make some new ones."

A pause.

“Have you been reading Seve's self-help books?"

“Hey," Roger protests, over Stan's soft snort, "he's a wise man. Even if he gets his books from Amazon."

“Yeah, yeah. God bless our glorious captain. Don't know what we'd do without him."

Roger glances over his shoulder and sees Seve puttering around the kitchen, tidying up and preparing a mid-afternoon coffee. It's nice, that some things are so dependable.

“Anyway, I should get going," Stan says. “Need to pick up Alexia from a playdate."

“All right. Talk to you later?"

“Sure. And Roger?"

“Yeah?"

“I miss you, too." 

And it doesn’t fix anything, not really, but Stan’s right, he thinks: some things, you just need to hear. He lets out a slow breath. “Yeah. I’ll see you soon?"

“In Australia, probably."

“Okay."

"I'll make you dinner again if you buy me a house."

He bites back a grin. “What do you want with a house in _Australia_?"

“True. Better buy me one in Switzerland, too, then."

"I'll look into it," he says, and listens to Stan laugh.

“I really have to go."

“All right."

“See you soon, yeah?"

“Yeah," Roger echoes. “See you."

Their glorious captain is sitting in an armchair with a cup of coffee and a paperback when Roger lets himself back inside. Seve glances up from his reading just long enough to ask,

“Are we good?"

Roger's phone buzzes before he can respond. He glances at the lock screen. 

_**Stan** _  
_brisbane dec 26. let me know if you need a practice partner._

When he looks up, Seve is watching him with a raised eyebrow. Roger smiles.

“Yeah. Let's make some calls."


End file.
